


In desperate music wound

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: O sea-starved, hungry sea [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Historical Targaryens, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15715923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: On the day of his brother's wedding, Daemon cannot quite keep his dissatisfaction under wraps.The hated day, already terrible, is made worse when even his great friend Corlys feels no sympathy for him.





	In desperate music wound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Riana1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riana1/gifts).



Viserys will lose his name today, and Daemon is expected to  _ celebrate  _ it. 

If his celebrated grandfather was half so strong as he is supposed to be, he would not allow this. But then, has the great Conciliator not given way to his council of fools? There is the Queen, straight and proud and arrogant, and Rhaenys, who walks as though Dragonstone is already hers, and fat Barth who acts as though he has a right to walk among the dragons, and there is  _ Aemma. _

His cousin, after today his goodsister, and his  _ enemy. _ He wishes nothing but ill luck on Aemma, and damn Viserys along with her for being so weak as to, as to-

Viserys claims to  _ love _ Aemma. How could anyone love that bitch? 

 

* * *

When they were small - well, when Vis was small, since Daemon does not think that he himself has ever truly been small, not in the ways that matter - Vis did as he was told. He went where Daemon led, did what Daemon bid, and always listened to what advice and guidance Mother offered. Daemon has always known his mother to be the wisest of women, the wisest of  _ anyone,  _ and he has cleaved close to her teachings all his life.

Daemon knows that he can be more than he is. Viserys, the stupid fat fool, has never  _ wanted  _ to be more than he is. Their father would have been the same had Mother not been at his side, her elbow digging into his reluctant ribs. 

Rhaenys will be more than she ought. No woman has ever held the throne in her own right, not even brave Visenya, so what right has Rhaenys to it? Uncle Aemon is changed by his time away, so much so that Daemon has heard Mother and his father whispering of it late into the night more than once, but Rhaenys has been the same hard-necked, interfering wasp all her life. That is unlikely to change now, unless for the worse, once she is crowned queen.

She might have at least furnished the realm with a worthy consort, if she is insisting on pressing her claim. Daemon loves Corlys as well as he loves any man, for Corlys has a wild heart to match his own, but he is no fit consort to the Iron Throne! He has Valyrian blood, even Daemon will not deny it, but he has no  _ Targaryen  _ blood.

Daemon would have made Rhaenys a better consort than Corlys. What use a sea-snake when she might have had a dragon? He will never understand women such as her.

 

* * *

Viserys’ pink face is shiny with happiness, and even Mother’s ill humour cannot seem to dampen him. Their father seems more pleased than he ought to be at having his heir stolen away, but perhaps that is just it. Mayhaps their father is pleased that this makes  _ Daemon  _ his heir.

Viserys is pleased about that. He’s delighted to become Aemma’s  _ consort,  _ because he has no spine, and no pride. He likes the blues and creams Aemma coaxes him to wear, throwing over his blacks and reds as if they have no meaning. Viserys has never seemed to truly understand what it is to be a dragon, of course, but he is too ready to ascend to the distant, fragile Eyrie.

No other man could have turned the Black Dread into a pet who noses his robes for treats, but Viserys has. Balerion has struck fear into the hearts of every man in Westeros for generations, but in the solitude of the dragonpit, Viserys has all but castrated the beast. Caraxes will never be made so… so… So  _ pathetic,  _ just as Daemon will always stand above his idiot brother. 

Viserys will be a kept man, someday. Daemon will always be free. He will not allow himself to be chained. He  _ won’t. _

 

* * *

Daemon sits with Corlys at the wedding feast, watching the dancing. Corlys would usually be the first man on the floor, of course, but the King begged Rhaenys’ hand for the first dance and so Corlys has found himself adrift.

Daemon might have danced with the Queen, but he finds that he has no taste for revelry today. How can he celebrate Rhaenys’ triumph? How can he find pleasure in anything that brings Aemma joy? No, today is not for happiness. Today is for Daemon’s enemies, and for him to consider things very carefully.

Mother and his father are dancing, but only because the Queen made it clear just how fierce her displeasure would run if they did not. So it Daemon, and Corlys, and a jug of passable fine Arbor gold. 

“We’ll surely have more weddings soon,” Corlys says, glancing sidelong at Daemon. “Have you given it any thought, my young friend?”

Corlys’ eyes are sharp sea-green, and Daemon refuses to balk. 

“There has been talk,” Daemon admits. He would say this to no man other than Corlys, and hates to share this even with him - to share anything with Corlys is to share it with Rhaenys, after all. “Some broodmare in the Vale. They think she will tame me, I suppose.”

“They think,” Corlys says, voice cooler than Daemon has ever heard from his friend, “that giving you the heiress to Runestone for a bride might  _ settle  _ you. She’s a wealthy girl, and handsome besides.”

“You speak as though you know her.”

“I met her when we visited at the Eyrie,” Corlys admits. “Her Grace thinks it a fine match indeed, and what Her Grace likes, His Grace permits.”

“What is this hold the Vale of Arryn has over my grandparents?” Daemon asks, suddenly furious. “First Daena, then Viserys, and now  _ me! _ What benefit is there in it?”

“They were peaceful allies to the Conquerors,” Corlys says reasonably. “I’ve heard rumours of a Tully match as well, but since there are a brace of Tully men you’d have no chance at Riverrun, and there are innumerable Starks but not a cunny between them. Runestone is as fine a keep as there is in Westeros, Daemon. Do not fight this.”

“There are other heiresses,” Daemon says, something in his head ticking. Is this how Mother feels, when she has one of her bouts of inspiration? “Your Laena will inherit High Tide, won’t she? Laenor will take the throne, and-”

“Both our children will wed outside the family, my friend,” Corlys says, as though this ought to be obvious. His children are  _ Targaryens,  _ how could such a thing be obvious? “My goodfather’s magister has a son for Laena, I’m told, who has no qualms about taking her name - would you, Daemon? Could you shuck your reds and blacks for Velaryon silvers and greens?”

Daemon will wear black until the day he dies, and vows then and there to never,  _ ever _ wear green.

“Laena is a Targaryen-”

“Aye, she is,” Corlys agrees, “but she’ll keep my name when she takes High Tide, just as she’ll wed more where I bid than where her mother does. The magister returned Prince Aemon to us from death, and he should be rewarded for it. Rhaenys would give him some keep in the Crownlands, and access to markets such as other Essosi merchants could only dream - but it isn’t coin the man wants. I know the Essosi, and there are plenty of them as obsessed with Valyrian blood as we are. Laena is of two Valyrian bloodlines, and rich beyond any man’s wildest dreams. She’ll satisfy even the Old Blood of Volantis.”

“Then she should wed  _ Valyrian-” _

“You will not have my daughter to wife, Daemon,” Corlys snaps. “Laena is set, and you are set, and that is an end to it. Do not make a fool of yourself. You are not a stupid man, and I should hate to see you garner a reputation for being one.”

 

* * *

At the bedding, Uncle Aemon and Corlys and Boremund Baratheon heave Aemma up away from reaching hands before she’s even been stripped of her slippers, while Viserys laughs, pink and smiling, amidst a crowd of cackling hens.

Daemon stands back and scowls. At his wedding, which his father admitted will be sooner than any of them might like, there will be no such joy. Doubtless  _ his _ bride won’t be shown any such favour. 

Mother is sitting near the Queen, immaculate and tight-lipped, and Daemon follows her lead. He will not speak a word on this or on his own upcoming marriage, not until she does. If he calls this one fault into question, he does not think he would be able to stop, and such behaviour would surely earn the ire of the Queen.

Even Daemon dreads his grandmother’s wrath.


End file.
